


creatura della notte

by josiebelladonna, nirvhannahcornell (josiebelladonna), xtinamoon (josiebelladonna)



Series: joeyrotica [1]
Category: Anthrax (US Band), Bandom
Genre: Doggy Style, F/M, Food Kink, Hand & Finger Kink, Headcanon, Imagines, Literal Sleeping Together, Long Shot, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, One Shot, Purple Prose, Semi-Public Sex, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 13:43:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21180401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josiebelladonna/pseuds/josiebelladonna, https://archiveofourown.org/users/josiebelladonna/pseuds/nirvhannahcornell, https://archiveofourown.org/users/josiebelladonna/pseuds/xtinamoon
Summary: Tall, dark, mysterious, never wavering, and the one who walks alone, and yet tempting. You cannot help but feel allured by the creature of the night, the man with the voice, the voice that seduces from the cold winds of Lake Ontario.





	creatura della notte

**Author's Note:**

> Based off a trio of headcanons I shared on Tumblr the other night. #thejoeygirls 💜🌹
> 
> “Then if anything grows while you pose,  
I'll oil you up and rub you down.  
And that's just one small fraction of the main attraction:  
You need a friendly hand and I need action!”  
-“Touch-A, Touch-A, Touch Me”, Susan Sarandon
> 
> ~
> 
> “Is it worth it? Let me work it.  
I put my thing down, flip it and reverse it [...]  
If you got a big, let me search ya  
and find out how hard I gotta work ya!”  
-“Work It”, Missy Elliott

He is the outsider of the band with his hailing from the lush backwoods of upstate, like a prince in his fitted black leather and lustrous kinky black hair. You would think he would be carrying a revolver in his high waisted stud belt, the gunslinger in search of the dark tower looming out from the dense banks of lake effect snows, but he never did brandish anything like that, at least not around you. Or so you believe. You don’t know.  
The quintessential strong and silent type, his gaze steely and with the shrieking wail to accompany it, and yet you foresaw his inner silky soft nature. Something about him puts you at ease, even when he flashes a glare at the most unruly of audience members and throws his most guttural of vocals during “Armed and Dangerous”, “S.S.C./Stand or Fall”, and of course, “Raise Hell” which holds the most potent of moments wherein you find yourself curling your toes inside of your Chuck Taylors and your breath even stopping in place. You found yourself orgasming there with him, and yet you feel soft at the sight of him. Was it his big brown eyes? Was it his soft, smooth looking brown skin all over his svelte body? Or the fact he always behaved like a little boy when on stage with them?  
You never could put your finger on it, especially when you had an actual moment with him in the back corridor of the concert hall.  
While on your way to the venue, you put in a little Steve Perry in your stereo and thus you had “Oh Sherrie” stuck in your head at that moment. You couldn’t help it: that first line slipped out from your lips once you rubbed rear ends with him in the bathroom line.  
You saw him out of the corner of your eye, but he already stepped away before you could continue in your inward singing.  
It was such an offhand moment but you wanted to hold onto it. You made a rush into the ladies’ room and then returned out when your hands were still dripping wet. He happened to be there outside of the lines, posted up on the other side of the hallway. Shaking your hands about, you wove your way through the people so as to reach him. He was exactly how you saw him in those paper magazines back home, except now he stood there, flesh and blood and without a drop of ink.  
“I couldn’t help but overhear you back there,” he said as part of his greeting, his fusion upstate Italian American accent smacking you right between the eyes, “that was the very first song I sang for Scott and Frankie in my audition.”  
“Oh yeah?”  
“Yeah. It’s a good song, isn’t it?”  
“It’s beautiful. I wish I was there to hear you sing it.”  
“Well, I might be singing it tonight when we play.” He flashed you a sly grin and a twinkle in his eye. “Keep your ears astute and your body even more astutely.”  
You let out a light little giggle when he spoke again.  
“Are you here by yourself?”  
“I am, yes.”  
“Meet me at the backstage door,” he advised you following a lick of his lips, “after the show. If nothing, I can give you a private show—“ His voice trailed off and you filled in the blank. He repeated it for his own sake and for yours, and without another word, he ducked out behind the curtain like a creature of the night.

*************************

Following their one hour set, and riding the rail with the mind’s eye of lightning arising from the crowd, you bustled out of the concert hall and into the chilly New York midnight. You zipped up your coat as you made your way around the corner towards the backstage entrance. Charlie stood hunched near the door with his hands stuffed into his jeans pockets, his hair tied back in a taut ponytail, and his skin milky and opaque against the floodlights on the side of the building: you found him fearless given he wore no sleeves against teenage temperatures and a falling mercury, but it made sense from his diligence that evening.  
“Ah, you must be the lady of the hour,” he greeted you, the devil’s cleft in his chin growing more prominent with his impending grin. He curled his index finger back so as to beckon you into the quaint little area, small and cramped but cozy in comparison to the frigid cold outside and the thrown elbows behind you. Scott’s stringy but long hair floated back from his head as he breezed past to the tiny water closet: before closing the door, he raised his thick black eyebrows at you to acknowledge you a greeting.  
Frankie and Danny were pouring themselves a drink each, and then he entered the room from the door on the far end, his belt high up on his svelte waist and his shirt hanging around his body like a curtain of lace. He had tousled his black hair back out from his face and his neck; he greeted you with an unassuming smile full of prominent star’s teeth.  
“Wow, that was quick,” he remarked, “here—come sit with me.”  
The two of you had a seat on the shabby looking olive green sofa next to the refreshments table. Despite the bright sheen upon his neck and his cheeks, he smelled soft and clean, like he had just climbed out of the shower and dried off with haste, in time to meet you there.  
“Would you like something?” he offered. “Cup of coffee? Prosciutto? Penne? Pro pens?”  
“Pro pens?” echoed Danny, cracking a smile.  
“Pro penis, Daniel,” Frank corrected.  
“It ain’t that pro, though, you guys,” he retorted, wagging his finger at them.  
“Damn, Joe, you’re actually going there with our lady here?”  
“Hey, at least it’s not all the way,” he pointed out, and Charlie and Frankie burst into a fit of laughter. You felt your face grow warm as you sank down there in lumpy cushion next to him. He then returned to you, with a warm rosy glow spanning over his face and his brown eyes glimmering as if a suggestion crossed his mind.  
“So... tell me. What do you have with you? What’s your story?”  
“Well, I have a new flat on the fringes of the Big Apple—I moved here from Chicago. I’m a musician.”  
The door of the water closet opened and Scott stepped out; meanwhile, the other four men raised their eyebrows and tilted their heads forward.  
“Y-You are?” Charlie choked out.  
“Yes.” You showed them a sparkling smile because you know you uncovered a sweet spot.  
The five of them crowded around your shins like children awaiting a story from their wise grandmother.  
“Go on,” he coaxed you in a low voice as he nudged closer to you against the lumpy back cushion.  
“I drum and play piano.”  
Danny and Frankie, both of whom were seated at your feet cross legged, erected their spines at the sound of that.  
“Care for a jam session in the future?” suggested Scott. You gave them a modest shrug but you knew you wanted it to happen.  
“I can sing, too. In fact, he’s one of my favorite singers ever.”  
That rosy glow flushed more with modesty: he glanced over at his band mates in hopes of figuring how to respond to that.  
“Me?” he stammered.  
“Yes.”  
“No wayyyy.” He blushed even more, his brown skin flowing with that lovely warmth.  
“Who else do you like?” Scott asked you.  
“Well, let’s see, I also like James Hetfield, Ronnie James Dio, Janis Joplin, and Robert Plant.”  
“We know you like Steve Perry, too,” recalled Danny.  
“Well of course.”  
“How ‘bout Geddy Lee?” he added.  
“Geddy Lee or bust,” you replied; and with that, he took your hand for a delicate kiss on the back. He showed you a sweet, endearing smile, but it wasn’t smarmy or riddled with the type of sleaze you might expect from boys his age. The sight of his smile added a warm soft feeling to your heart, and a peculiar tingling sensation right in between your thighs.  
“By the way... that is a gorgeous color for you,” he spoke out of the blue. You peer down at the rich oxblood red top underneath your coat. You opened your coat to show them the color in its entirety.  
“Ooh, hot!” Frankie declared. Scott raised his eyebrows at you, while Charlie and Danny both checked you out. But he showed you a little smirk and a raise of one eyebrow. You began to think about it: you rubbed butts, he caught you singing a song that meant the world to him, and now he had this look upon his face like he was seducing you. The red shirt became the sole thing separating you from him.

*************************

You didn’t see him again after that, and in that time, you found a decent job at a nearby bar called Snarky’s in order to help pay your rent and everything in between. You still desired to play gigs and to show him what you had with you in your repertoire. You wanted to see him again, to be in his presence, and most of all, you wanted to feel his derrière again, to give it a nice hearty caress and maybe a squeeze or two. You wanted to know if he had the best butt you had rubbed against on accident ever.  
It drove you crazy, in fact, the desire to feel him in your hand, to feel him pressed against your body.  
You wore a red button up silk shirt for your waitress job, and once happy hour rolled around, you let one button loose to show more skin and ultimately for more generous tips, and more tips all around. You thought about him, the possibility of seeing him again and perhaps turning the tables on him. The thought of him made you feel sexy, like you could enthrall anyone.  
One night was slow in particular, and you were so bored out of your wits that you took out your bun to let down your hair: you actually thought the timers in the building would shut off all the lights in there because nothing was going on. You then took a seat behind the bar and thought about what to do next.  
There were things to do in the bar, and in the back in particular, and God forbid anyone caught the new girl lounging around on the job. You stood to your feet and turned around in time to catch him standing right there at the bar with his hand on the back of the chair next to you. You had your face right in his chest. He had on a soft looking leather jacket over a black sweatshirt and denim jeans: sometimes baggy clothes are the best. Meanwhile, he had tousled his black hair to where most of it sprawled over his shoulders; he raised his little black eyebrows at the sight of you.  
“Oh,” he gasped. “Hello. I didn’t think I would see you here.”  
You chuckled and then clutched at yourself, which in turn brought attention to your chest and your collar bones. He nibbled on his bottom lip and slipped the tip of his tongue out before he cleared his throat.  
“Um, have a seat,” he stammered. You collapsed back into the seat of the chair and kept your left thigh over the edge of the seat to bring attention to your crotch. He took a seat next to you and crossed his legs underneath the bar: you took a glimpse down at his belt and the baggy crotch of his jeans. He looked cozy, not the same dark prince you had in mind at first.  
“You know, I’m a waitress here,” you began, “so what would you like, babe?”  
“You got any pasta?”  
“I think we do. I don’t know if our cook is in yet, but I can make some for you.”  
“That’d be—kinda hot, actually.” His voice in conjunction with that Italian American accent was utterly erotic to you. You nodded and ducked out from the other side of the chair before he could make out the blush on your face. You rushed into the kitchen for the pot of water and some linguine. You could hardly believe it: you were making dinner for a boy, and a sexy boy at that, too.  
Once the water was just shy of one hundred degrees, you felt a tap on the shoulder. You peeked over your shoulder and he padded up behind you. He taken off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder with two fingers.  
“Getting eager, are we?” you teased him.  
“Maybe. It’s also kinda boring out there. You know, we’re the only ones here and whatnot.” He set the coat down on the metal rack near the stove. You watched him toss his hair back from his neck and chest, and you caught a jingling noise underneath his sweatshirt. Your curiosity piqued, you stuck your hands into the back pockets of your jeans to bring attention to your hips and your curves.  
“So what’s your last name?” you asked him after clearing your throat.  
“Belladonna,” he answered, his voice low and soft. “It’s actually Bellardini but I go by that one instead.”  
“Oh, really?”  
“Yeah.”  
You hovered in closer to his face; eyeing his chest, you considered running your fingers along his neck and to the buttons on his collar.  
“You know—I have always found Italian Americans to be the most... sensual of Americans.”  
“Oh, really?” He swallowed and nearly gagged on his own oxygen.  
“I think your accent is sexy.”  
The tip of his tongue caressed over the edge of his teeth, and you wanted to exchange saliva with him right there. You take a fleeting glimpse down at his body, slim and lithe, and yet you could sense his toned muscles underneath that sweatshirt. A soft clean aroma emerged off of his neck and his hair. There was something so delicate and comforting about him at the same time. Even standing there, you could tell he was a lush man of many colors and layers, all of which you wanted to experience under your tongue.  
“The other part of me is Iroquois,” he almost breathed those words.  
“Chief Italian Stallion—“ You take one hand out of your pocket.  
“What say—uh—I take you home with me to Oswego?” You know he blurted that one out. You brought your lips closer to his, but you didn’t kiss him. Instead you placed your hand on that full hip: your thumb rested on the bone and he relaxed at the feeling. He had such voluptuous hips, a gentle curve that would look too effeminate on another man, but were sensual on him. You then recall that night.  
“You have quite the booty,” you whispered into his face.  
“Do I now?” He licked his lips as you reached behind him and lay your hand on his lower back for a moment before sliding it down.  
“You’ve got it—real thick back here—like the rest of you is nice and slim, but—“ You put extra emphasis on “but” as you pulsed your fingers. He rolled his eyes back into his head before snapping the lids shut; he nibbled on his bottom lip once again. He swallowed and accompanied it with the tilt of his head to show you his neck and his Adam’s apple.  
“Should you put the linguine in or should I do it?” he choked out; for a second, you misheard that as “lingerie”, but then you hovered closer to his face right as he let out an aroused gasp through gritted teeth.  
“I’ll do it. You just relax and be the little slinky stud muffin you are back out front.” You gave his butt another gentle squeeze before letting go of him. He opened his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. You returned your attention to the pot of water with the rolling boil to pour in the pasta.  
One dinner was up to par, you served the pasta in a big clean dish for him, accompanied with a generous amount of sauce, a light dusting of Parmesan cheese, and a slice of garlic toast. There was a part of you that wanted to join him there at the bar but a couple of patrons entered the place and you had to care for them.  
Every so often, you moseyed on over to him to make sure he was enjoying himself.  
“My compliments to the cook,” he told you in a throaty voice at one point before sticking a large twirl of linguine into his mouth.  
When he had finished, you sashayed over to him for his plate; and he leaned back into his chair with his hands rubbing over his slim stomach.  
“That was too good for words,” he confessed, shifting his weight. You show him a warm smile, and it dawned on you that you had your hair down the whole time. He must have taken your word for it because he showed himself to you, in all his preciousness and his softness. It was that moment you realized he was perfect: you couldn’t resist him any longer.  
“I think my jacket is still—mmm, ‘scuse me—in the back there.”  
“I’ll—uh, get it for you, big boy,” you whispered into his face again: you followed that up with a run of your tongue around the circumference of your lips. You knew you were succeeding in this seduction, and now you needed the cherry on top.  
As you returned to the kitchen to put the dish on the counter and to fetch his coat, you were positive you had him in the palm of your hand. You picked the pile of soft leather off the shelf: before you turned around, you felt a pair of hands wrap around your waist. Fingers crept down the front of your trousers, onto the button. You recognized his olive skin as he unfastened the button. You turned to find him there before you with his chest heaving and his face flushed.  
“Kiss me—“ you begged him.  
“Only if you kiss me.”  
You lay the coat back on the rack so to better lunge for him. You wrapped your arms around his delicate waist as he shoved his tongue right into your mouth. His chest heaved; his belly was soft and so warm from feeling full. You ran your fingers through his dark hair as you sensed his hands over your back: he was unhooking you.  
You hoped no one would walk in on the two of you as you moved your head back to hear him breathe.  
“You wanna go into the back room here, baby doll?” he whispered to you.  
“Please,” you pleaded to him. He took you by the hand and led you into the small narrow nook of a back room, where you were met with a loveseat and a stack of boxes. You nudged the narrow door closed behind you, and without hesitation, he peeled off his sweatshirt. He had smooth, silky looking skin with a healthy kiss of brown, a deep strong looking chest, and a stomach as flat as an ironing board. You could feel that tingling sensation between your thighs again, and then you unfastened the buttons of your work shirt.  
“Take it off,” he commanded, gesturing to your bra straps. You unhooked and let the straps fall down your arms. He lay down on the loveseat, on his back.  
“My jeans are getting tight,” he confessed, “and not from the fact I made a complete pig of myself back there.”  
You, however, let your pants drop down to the floor and you climbed on top of him. Your hair cascaded over his face and neck. Your chest hung right over him, and you could see your nipples tightening and hardening.  
“What were you gonna do back there with the unbuttoning?” you asked him.  
“Touch you. Like what I’m doing right now.”  
You took a glimpse down at your waist in time to catch his fingers down your crotch.  
“Spread eagle for me, baby—“  
You straddled his waist so he could make a better, deeper caress into you. You gasped out at the feel of him stroking your clit—you didn’t realize his fingers were that long! You gasp and buck your hips at the feeling. You breathe heavily from the feeling, until you take a glimpse down at his waist. He’s getting hard.  
“Go comatose for me, baby,” you breathed into his face.  
“Gladly—“ he grunted through gritted teeth. You reached down to undo his jeans and peel back his underwear. So big and full.  
“Wow—“ you gasped. “Italian Stallion.”  
“Giddy up, cowgirl,” he challenged you as he continued to finger you. The tips of his fingers reached that dime sized bundle of nerves in your coochie and then you were ready. You moved your hips forward for a seat on his erection. You ground your hips around like you were churning butter.  
He gasped and groaned at the feeling. Every gyration of your hips led your closer and closer to the cowgirl he said you were.  
“MOTHERFUCKING YEEHAW!” he shouted. You hushed him with a finger over his lips.  
“What would the neighbors and patrons think?” you demanded.  
“Let them—“ he growled. “Let them see us!” He threw his head back against the pillow of the loveseat.  
“Oh God—oh fucking hell—“ He opened his eyes and parted his lips: his face was riddled with lust for you.  
“Say my name,” he said in a husky voice.  
“Huh?”  
“Say my name!”  
“Joey!”  
“Louder!”  
“Joey!”  
“Louder, dammit!”  
“OH JOEY!”  
“YES!”  
He gripped onto your hips and yanked you down onto the cushions. He lifted himself up over you, and straddled over your hips. His hair flooded over his shoulders, while his cheekbones filled out with the accompanying warm blush. His lips puckered up at the sight of your face.  
“You’re cowgirl, I’ll be Indian,” he told you in a broken voice. You could sense it between you, especially with his hands on your hips like he was going to turn you over onto your face.”  
“Want me to roll over?”  
“God, yes.”  
He lifted up for you to roll onto your stomach: you protected your chest from the rough fabric of the loveseat with the backs of your hands. You felt his hands gently holding onto your hips. You spread eagle for him.  
He thrusted forward right into your clit. You gasped at the feeling, but on the second time you gave him a soft moan from the back of your throat. He thrusted again, and again; the smacking sound filled your ears. Every so often he let out a groan, but once your moans led to a loud squeal he gave away every inch of feeling within him to relish in every inch of you: he surrendered to the feeling.  
“Hey—hey—okay—okay—!”  
Another thrust, and that time it was the hardest.  
“FUCK!” you shouted, and you felt yourself coming.  
He shrieked, a high piercing shriek with a vibrato as if he was singing.  
“Okay—!” he choked out; he let go of your hips and yanked out. You fell onto your hands for a moment: you felt him climb off the loveseat and then he padded out of the back room for something. When he returned, you rolled onto your back. Your breasts poked out for him as he lunged towards you with his jacket in hand, but he slid in between you and the back of the loveseat. He cloaked you with his jacket and put his arm around your body: you know he did it to feel you and hold you close.  
“That was—everything I wanted and then some,” you told him in a broken voice. “Shouldn’t we have a blanket other than your jacket?”  
“Keep it, sweet cheeks,” he whispered to you, following it up with a low whistle. “God, you did that like a fucking pro.”  
“That’s what I get for finding your dick so delicious,” you croaked out.  
“What say—uh, you and I call it a night here and mosey back to New York in the morning,” he suggested, putting his arm around you.  
“Sounds like a plan. It is closing time after all.”  
He nestled closer to you with his fingers on your hip: he still felt full and soft as he pressed himself closer to you. Your eyelids grew heavy right then as the timers shut off all the lights for the night. Your hope was that he would continue to hold you when you awoke in the morning.


End file.
